Who Do You Root for When There Is No Home Team?

To outsiders, it is not unrealistic to draw comparisons between Boston’s sports pandemonium and a herd mentality. Any outing on the Red Line can easily be transformed into a riveting game of counting how many toddlers in Red Sox paraphernalia or grown men in Bruins jerseys you can spot during the work week. 

To the people of this city, both natives and transplants, the sporting tradition is impossible to ignore. Billboards, radio commercials, public transportation ads—not to mention the discounted merchandise stands that are likely the only thing more prevalent than Dunkin’—proudly wave the logos of the area’s professional sports teams. Sports mark a significant source of pride and a pillar in the regional cultural identity of New England—and for good reason. 

Boston has been at the forefront of modern sports history. The early popularity of sporting clubs in the city paved the way for America’s success in global sports markets. The Boston Athletics Association largely defined Team USA’s presence in the first modern Olympics in 1896, inspiring the iconic Boston Marathon one year later in 1897. Other clubs, such as the Oneida Football Club, were pivotal to the later success of charter organizations that were foundational to the establishment of the professional sports leagues we follow today. Since their inception, Boston’s professional teams have cemented a legacy as one of the winningest cities in sports. Bringing home 40 championship titles across these elite leagues, the city proudly boasts the nickname “Titletown.” 

But even outside one of the winningest cities like Boston, with its numerous titles and historic firsts, major sports cities have an inseparable relationship with their athletic industries. Sports teams—especially at the higher levels—are central to local economies, drawing in fans who boost spending, benefit hospitality, tourism, and employment, and create distinctive branding that extends a city’s influence beyond its zip code.

Within these sports cities, teams also play a critical role in fostering community. Wearing the logo of the home team is an open invitation to conversation with fellow sports fans who pass you by on the street. Committed fans give not only time, money, and energy to their favorite franchises but also generate revenue and social unity that, incidentally, benefit their favorite cities by funding philanthropic efforts and public events. Supporting local franchises means more than sporting a jersey or rooting for your favorite team—it signals loyalty to the communities behind them. 

But what if, like me, you are from a state with no professional teams at all? How do you choose which teams and cities are worth your dime when choosing your own is not an option?

My typical return to New Mexico is marked by two certainties: indigestion from Hatch green chile and withdrawal from the booming sports scene of Boston. Unlike in Boston, where sports largely unify the city, here they become a divisive force.

In New Mexico, the sports market profits from division. Our “big” athletic entertainment lies along I-25—the regional Rio Grande Rivalry between the University of New Mexico and New Mexico State University that literally splits state loyalty along the North/South boundary. This rivalry is not only an athletic one but a cultural one, driven by a long history of colonization and conflicting geographic identities. Fans’ arguments span from football to crime rates to whose Mexican food is better, consistently becoming so intense that physical violence breaks out during stoppages in play. 

For us, this college rivalry is the closest thing we have to a professional sports league. As a Southern New Mexican, rooting for UNM would be the equivalent of a Bostonian rooting for the Yankees—utter sacrilege! However, unlike a Bostonian, we apply the rules of geographic loyalty exclusively to our collegiate teams and find them practically irrelevant when deciding which professional teams we support.

Some do choose based on proximity, turning to our neighboring states, namely Texas and Arizona. However, supporting these franchises is also a contentious decision because the patriotism for one’s home state can make backing these teams feel like an act of betrayal. 

Growing up in the area, you know that bringing up the Dallas Cowboys sparks a broader conversation about the likability of Texas as a whole. The state’s politics, drivers, and even their portion sizes influence whether or not the franchise captures the attention of a New Mexican fan who either dies for their boys or swears them off like the plague. And as for Arizona, fans are even fewer in number, with franchises known for their post-season letdowns—a trend often regarded as a curse. After all, few remain committed to losing franchises, even fewer when it isn’t even your home team. 

Because proximity only plays a part in the teams we select, fanhood shifts drastically from a community-driven practice to an individualistic one. Walking into a sports bar on a Sunday, you rarely see more than five of the same NFL team jerseys. Even on the household level, Super Bowl Sundays cause squabbles between my Broncos-fan uncle and diehard Patriots-fan brother. I speculate that this pattern is largely because, in the absence of in-person athletic events to attend, arguing with others offers a substitute form of entertainment. 

While arguing is a trademark of sports fandom in general, our athletic industry is built almost entirely upon trash talk, sports betting, and deeply personal rivalries. By nature, being a sports fan in New Mexico means you need to be able to defend why you support a certain franchise. If someone asks, “Why is X your favorite team?” you cannot default to the argument “Because I’m from Y place.” Be it a favorite player, team culture, that it’s your parents’ favorite team, or simply—as our strong inclination towards bandwagoning suggests—because the team wins a lot, selection requires justification. 

Without a doubt, our sports fans exercise greater freedom in the professional teams they pick (and repick). Professional sports teams do not uphold our local communities and economies the way they do in major cities. Thus, aligning sports to personal preference becomes a morally permissible thing to do because it reflects nothing about someone’s commitment to the communities they belong to. Because our social identities are almost entirely separate from our allegiances as fans, we arguably take a more holistic (albeit sporadic and bandwagon-y) approach to professional sports. 

The time, money, and energy we contribute to professional teams are often sunk costs that yield no benefit to our local economies. On the occasion that fans do venture to watch their favorite team in person, travel costs alone amount to a lofty investment. So, when it comes to deciding who to support, the only real personal stake in the game is your own financial burdens, bets, and bragging rights. 

Having lived in “Titletown” and the middle of nowhere desert where local high school rivalries get more traction than the Olympics, I can attest that there are certainly merits to both approaches to sports fandom. 

Making friends in Boston is easy. All I have to do is wear my brother’s hand-me-down Tom Brady jersey, and suddenly I’m rejoicing with strangers over the promising future of Drake Maye. This default sense of community is heartwarming, but I have to admit I do miss the spectacle of the divisive competitiveness back home. 

Luckily, making enemies is easy in Boston, too. On days when I feel homesick, I might instead reach for a Habs hat just to stir a reaction from those grown men in Bruins jerseys on the Red Line. 

Megan Legault ’28 (mlegault@college.harvard.edu) fights intense FOMO every time the Canadiens play in the Bell Centre.